Secrets
by V-Gin
Summary: Draco has a secret. Will Harry be able to help him get beyond it and heal him? HPDM Slash, do not read if you do not like or know what slash is.


Secrets

Rating: I am putting the rating at PG, could go up for the next part.

Warnings: I have to say, there is Angst and there is Blood. No Deaths and No Suicides. Oh and this is what I have heard called a 'Creature Feature.' Aka someone is part magical creature; the most common example of this is the Harry/Draco is Veela story. This isn't a Veela story.

Disclaimer: I own so very little in life, I tend to think of it like the Dido song, 'Life for Rent', which means I own less then you think.

Thanks to Amy! The most patient and wonderful person who has Beta'd this story for me! Any other mistakes came about when I was mucking around with it after she finished. So enjoy, sit back, relax, and let me know what you think.

Part 1

The halls of Hogwarts School for witches and wizards rang with excitement. Students were packing and saying goodbye to friends. They were getting last-minute studying out of the way and sheepishly returning overdue books that had been checked out in the first weeks of school. Still others were hiding said books and promising themselves that they would take them back after they got back. This year as in years past there were very few people staying at the castle over the Christmas Holiday. There was no great pressing need to keep all the students inside the school, no festivities to keep them, and Dumbledore had said that it was always good to spend time with one's family.

Most families seemed to agree. But there were two students that were not going to be at home this holiday, two students that were going to be confined to the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. One was the tousled dark-haired, glasses-wearing, green-eyed, and (in most girls' opinion) handsomely-scarred Savior of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter. The other was none other then the Golden Boy's nemesis in all things school-wise, the pale, gray-blue eyed, icy-blond, with the 'all snark and sneer' attitude, that was Draco Malfoy.

Harry could have, had he been so inclined, spent the time off from school with the Weasley family, but had declined for one very simple reason. He didn't think he could handle being any more jealous of Ron. The redhead had at least two things Harry would have given his entire bank vault at Gringotts for: one, a family that adored him and two, the anonymity of mediocrity. Wherever Harry went, because of the scar, he would be known. Besides, he didn't need to see the playful banter and feel the deep affection of the Weasley family to know what he was missing in his life.

Draco for his part had no other place to go. Ever since Potter had put his father in Azkaban Prison his mother had been inconsolable. And now she was being inconsolable abroad and didn't have time to settle down long enough in one place for something like the Christmas Hols. She was far too busy, so her son would have to find someone else to help him with what his father called 'Draco's little problem'.

So here Draco was, on the day everyone else was leaving the school, wondering what he was going to do. He would have asked Snape to help him, but apparently the Potions Master wasn't going to be there, in fact he had already left. When Draco had casually asked him what he was doing over the Hols, Snape said that he was going to be gone till the classes started back up. Not that he had mentioned any reasons as to why he would be gone, or even where he was going.

Draco shifted imperceptibly; it already had started to itch and ache. He knew that he wasn't like the rest of the boys in his dormitory, he had sneaked enough glances to assess that information while the others were changing. They didn't have the scars he did, they also probably didn't have to suffer the way he did once a year. They were probably all normal.

Today was the 24th of December, and Draco knew that he had three more days to figure out how he was going to do this. He knew it was going to happen then because that is when it had started. His first time had been, according to his dad, on the seventh full moon after his 5th birthday. Lucius had also gone on to explain the significance of these days and numbers, but Draco had never paid attention. He only knew after that first time, it would always happen again on the anniversary date of Dec. 27th.

Draco had been worrying about this ever since he had gotten back to Hogwarts. Of course at first he had merely been worried about trying to get his mother to help him. Actually he had figured she couldn't really help him, but maybe she could find someone who could; maybe one of the house elves could do it. He knew he wasn't flexible enough to do it himself. He seriously doubted anyone was that flexible, but maybe there was a spell.

In past years when he was at home, he remembered that his father had always made Draco stand facing a wall in the bathroom, with his feet at about shoulder width apart for stability, gripping the wall-mounted towel rack in front of him. According to Lucius, this made it easier to hold the boy still. His father could never get it finished quickly enough to suit Draco, though over the years the two had gotten into something of a rhythm. Lucius always said it had to be perfect. After the second time it happened, Draco began waiting in the bathroom as the time approached on the designated day. Unfortunately he was never sure when it would actually take place; so far it had never been before noon, but it could be as late as eleven.

Then later, Draco had stayed at school, not wanting to miss the great fun going on, what with all the mudbloods dropping like flies. Severus had snuck Lucius in to visit, and had continued to do so whenever Draco stayed. The teacher had never known what Lucius and Draco did, and had never bothered to ask. When Draco was staying at school he always owled his father to tell him which bathroom he would be hiding in, and had found a special spell in the restricted section which allowed him to charm a cloth to use as a gag that would absorb any noise he might make. Lucius had been especially glad that Draco had figured a way around that little problem. He had been worried; after all, Draco wasn't too good at staying quiet throughout the whole thing.

It always hurt for days afterwards, even though his father healed him as soon as it was over, and Draco could never get over the amount of blood, or the fact that sometimes it would break open again afterwards and he would wake up with bloody sheets, or his clothing sticking to him from it. He was ever so thankful for the dark colors of the Hogwarts' robe to hide those days. Draco had long suspected that he continued to bleed for one basic reason, even though powerful healing spells were used Draco was sure he never would be completely healed. It was as if there was something just beneath the surface, always trying to get out of him.

Narcissa had never appreciated what Lucius was doing for Draco, nor did she approve, but she was what she was, and she knew that in her position she could only smile and ignore the damaging practices going on. She was really just thankful that she herself would never have to go though it. It seemed quite a painful, messy process. Besides, she always found a reason to be out of the house on that particular day.

It was the combination of the yearly ritual with his father and his mother's attitude towards it that lead Draco to his beliefs about himself, one, that he was a freak, and the other that his parents were ashamed of him. When he had figured this out, he did the only thing he thought he could: he fell back on the snobbery and tremendous sense of monetary worth that was being drilled into him from all angles. If he could act like he was better then everybody else, he could be what his parents wanted, as long as no one knew about what happened, as long as no one saw his scars.

Draco listlessly pushed his eggs around on his plate. Maybe he could ask Dumbledore. He glanced up at the head table and studied the wizened Headmaster, who seemed to be telling a bawdy story, if the scandalized look on Professor McGonagall's face, the fascinated one on the oaf Hagrid's, and the outrageous hand gestures were any indication. He probably would be better off not telling Dumbledore anything, he decided, after a particularly disturbing-looking pantomime.

Nope, it looked like he was going to be spending some time in the library, so he might as well just resign himself and get to it. Besides, despite the fact that his mother hadn't approved of what Lucius did, she still sent Draco his father's favorite tool to use for the occasion.

For Harry the days were passing in a blur.

He had expected Malfoy to be a thorn in his side, but so far, the self-proclaimed 'Prince of Slytherin' (though Harry had never actually heard Malfoy call himself that, the blond was just conceited enough to do it) was strangely absent from all meal times and nowhere to be seen during any of Harry's wanderings through the School. If Harry hadn't found out, via the Marauder's Map, that the blond boy was spending most of his time in the library, he would have, possibly, been concerned about his well being.

Christmas had come and gone with the usual gifts and candies from his friends, Hermione had gotten him a book (surprise!) to go along as additional reading with what they had been discussing in Care of Magical Creatures. It was called 'Magical Creatures of Lore: Myths, Extinct or Just Hiding Out?' by I. C. Num. Ron's gift was also a book, and if Harry was right about the crush the redhead had on the brainy witch, he had Hermione's influence to thank for it as well. It was a book on Quidditch entitled 'The Mathematics of Quidditch or How to Catch a Snitch with a Slide-Rule' by Sumi Quotient. Also, surprisingly enough, this year he had gotten a few gifts from 'admirers'. He really didn't want to know who they actually were. He didn't think he could get over blushing every time he glanced at the book he had gotten from one of them. It was called 'The Wizards Guide to the Magical Kama-Sutra' by Intra K Shone and after glancing through it, he really didn't want to ever meet the person who called themselves the 'Ravishing Ravenclaw'.

To make matters worse, that wasn't even the worst of the gifts. There was now a box in Harry's trunk that was never, ever going to be opened, under pain of death… or humiliation… or something. Heck, Harry was planning on tying the box to a cinder block and dumping it into The Thames, just so people would never find out that Harry Potter now owned a… Harry felt his face turn a brilliant hue of scarlet as a full-body shiver attacked him, and he resolved never, ever, to think of anything in that box again.

Regardless, interesting gifts aside, Harry had been quite bored this year. No teachers were trying to kill him, unless you counted Snape's greasy glares, and ill wishes every time Harry did anything during potions class. There were no strange creatures to fend off, except of course in Care of Magical Creatures. There were no evil plots being played out, save for his homework in Divinations class. Come to think of it, why was he still in that class, anyway? And there was relatively no antagonism in the hallways. Amazingly enough, not even Malfoy had been a prat to him so far this year.

Harry had spent the next day wondering and contemplating Malfoy. Obviously, having his father put in prison was a devastating blow for the boy, and it was also obvious that Malfoy actually did care for his dad, and if you actually loved someone wasn't it supposed to follow that you still loved them if they did something wrong? Harry thought of what he had seen in Snape's mind last year and what had been in the man's Pensieve. Even though the memories were tainted with an extreme dislike of Harry's father, he couldn't help but think: "My dad was kind of a prat." But he still loved his dad. Wouldn't the same thing apply to Draco and Lucius? Would Lucius have a kinder or different face that he showed to his family, or was he actually the cold, unfeeling prick Harry had always assumed he was?

For the most part, all he was resolving for himself was the fact that this line of questioning was giving him a massive headache. Maybe he should hunt Malfoy down tomorrow and see if they could talk, like the civil human beings he long suspected they both could be, and resolve something. At the very least Harry could apologize for making sure that git of a Death Eater, and all around impotent girly-man, Lucius Malfoy, was arrested. Just maybe not in that terminology.

Harry had gone through most of the next day before he remembered that he was going to have a 'talk' with Malfoy. He was even going to be shooting for a conversation not containing lots of yelling and screaming. There might be some name-calling, and a little bit of the raising of the voices, but hey, he was only human, and Malfoy was… probably human also. He pulled out the Marauder's Map and followed it to a bathroom in the dungeons. Standing outside the door, he reasoned that cornering Malfoy in the bathroom was probably not the best idea, so he would simply wait outside till Malfoy emerged. Yep, a hallway was a much better place for a confrontation… err… conversation, he meant to say conversation. He might even let Malfoy cast a hex or two at him, not that he would just stand there and let them hit him, but he would be magnanimous enough that he wouldn't quite retaliate.

After a good twenty-five minutes outside the bathroom Harry took another look at the map, making sure this was the bathroom that Malfoy was in, when he noticed that the other boy wasn't in one of the stalls near the wall, he was pretty much just in the middle of the room. Not moving. Harry put the map away and took a deep breath. Softly he knocked on the bathroom door, feeling kind of stupid for doing so, what was he? A girl?

"Malfoy?" he called just as softly as he pushed the door open, not wanting to startle the other boy. "Hey Malfoy, I know you're in here, I just want… to… talk…"

Harry trailed off at the sight of Draco Malfoy in a pool of blood, on the floor of the bathroom, surrounded by blood, shirtless. There was blood smeared on what could be seen of his chest, as he lay on his left side, in a pool of blood. Did Harry mention the blood? There was some type of almost velvety, bloody looking material draping part of the blond's blood-smeared torso.

"Oh God, Malfoy, what happened? What did you do?" He said as he knelt next to the other boy, trying not to get the blood on his pants. There just seemed to be so much of it.

Malfoy twitched slightly as his eyes slitted open, and seemed to study Harry for an infinite amount of time that only took a few seconds. Then he moved, the cloth also moved seemingly of it's own accord, and revealed that in one of his hands he held a nasty looking knife. "You have to help me Potter," the Slytherin gasped, weakly shoving the knife in Harry's direction. "They need… to come off… I can't… Please… they need to come off."

Harry took the bloody knife from the other boy if only to get him to relax slightly. "God, Draco, where did you cut yourself? Where are you bleeding? What do you mean, they need to come off?"

He rolled forward a bit so that his back was slightly angled towards Harry, and tugged on the cloth covering him. It was with a sickening realization that Harry discovered the cloth wasn't cloth, but some strange protrusions from Malfoy's back and there were two of them just on the insides of the shoulder blades. Part of the bleeding was from the skin around the protrusions, which were each about eight centimetre long slits, the rest was from the right… wing was the only thing Harry could think to describe it (though in truth it still looked more like a long, floppy, gory piece of fabric), which the other boy had managed to saw halfway through with the knife, a few centimetres out from the skin. And it was still bleeding at a decent rate.

"Oh God, I have to get you to Madam Pomfrey!" Harry exclaimed, dropping the knife with a wet clanking noise, as he tugged the Slytherin up to stand on unsteady feet.

He didn't really put up much of a struggle as Harry half-carried the staggering boy out of the bathroom and down the hall, the wings dragging along the ground behind them, leaving a bloody trail. Then Malfoy pulled away and leaned heavily against the wall. Before Harry could say anything, he had hissed out two words: "Gryffindor's Suck."

Harry was about to say something, on the rather scathing side, when he heard a slight rumble and the glide of the door to the Slytherin dormitories sliding open. Harry rolled his eyes. That must be the password to the door. Really, though, how childish could they get? He, however, chose to ignore the fact that for one whole week the password to the Gryffindor tower had been 'Stupid, Slimy Snakes' which had been shortened from the widely acceptable 'Stupid, Slimy, Disgusting, Lying, Cheating, Dark Lord Loving, Deatheater Wannabe's Who Should at the Very Least be Trashed Soundly For Being on the Wrong Side'. It was mostly Ron's idea, with input from some of the newer Gryffindors. Regardless, they had to change it so Neville could remember it, then Hermione had made them change it to something completely different. Right now it was 'Wizard Wheezy'.

"My wand… need it Potter…" the Slytherin said haltingly as he pointed inside the doorway. "First hallway on the left… third door on the right… It should be in plain sight… the nightstand… the floor… I can't remember… forgot it… when I grabbed the knife." He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his blood staining the stones in a crimson streak. "Don't worry…" he said, with a tired sounding laugh. "I'm not going anywhere."

Nodding slightly, Harry practically ran to the dorm room Malfoy was sharing with his year mates. He looked around the room and was sickened to find he could easily tell which bed was the blond's. They were all lined up along the walls of the room, and his was obviously the one with blood and gore on the sheets and wall beside it. There was also a torn and bloody shirt on the floor of the room. He quickly took the wand from the floor near the bedside table and, stuffing it into his pocket, went back to move Malfoy to the infirmary.

Draco knew he should have tried harder to get Potter to cut off his wings. No other self-respecting Wizard had wings. So why in the world would Draco Malfoy want them? He 'harrumphed' softly to himself as he lay on his tummy, glaring at the cloth dividers that cut him off from the rest of the sick ward. Not like there was anyone staying in it aside from him.

Draco tried to move to a more comfortable position, like say, something where he wasn't on his stomach, but found that the hastily rigged pulley system, and the splints on his wing holding it immobile kind of held him immobile. Draco let forth a long-suffering sigh. Before he had tried to messily saw his own wing off, Draco had tried a few spells that he had found for all occasions involving cutting, shriveling up and dying, and separating something from something else. It was then that he learned something that his father had probably already known. The damned things were spell-resistant.

So Madam Pomfrey had been forced to do things the old fashioned way and, thankfully while Draco was blissfully passed out, she had stitched his right wing together, and did the best she could to make sure Draco couldn't 'accidentally' move it, re-open the wound and start it bleeding.

Snape had apparently gotten word of it and, being the smart individual he was, put one and two together to come up with four. He had shown up and apologized profusely for not thinking anything was off when Lucius came to visit those times at Hogwarts. The git had the nerve to sound close to tears, and was mistaking Draco for an animal that liked having its head stroked.

Draco had flailed his hands around his head as best he could, smacking the professor's hand away. "You didn't see anything wrong, because there is nothing wrong," he had growled, still trying to run interference on Snape's newly touchy-feely hands. "Now, unless you're here to rid me of these damnable wings and then heal me so I can get on with my life, you can just bugger off!"

Snape backed away from the boy on the bed and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring sternly at Draco. "Do you know what you are, Mister Malfoy? Have you though of the possible damage you could be doing to yourself by cutting off your wings?" Snape glanced over Draco's prone body. "Aside from the obvious that is. Were you actually trying to kill yourself?"

Draco tried glaring at the older man over his right shoulder, but it didn't quite work. Snape was partially blocked from view by Draco's immobilized wing, but he could see the way that the Potion Master's arms were crossed over his chest. There was quite a bit to be said for body language. His mind supplied the face that normally went with that particular stance. If Draco was any judge Snape was a little bit pissed. "Of course I wasn't trying to kill myself," he muttered sullenly, turning his head to the left. "I was just trying to get rid of these stupid things so no one would know."

He reached out and grabbed his left, unrestrained wing, which was spilling off the bed in a cascade of black and forming a lifeless puddle on the floor. "I mean look at this, it isn't feathers like a bird, it isn't coarse and leathery like a dragon, no butterfly wings here. It looks like two pieces of crushed velvet, sewn together with a little roll of padding, limp padding I might add, inserted at the top. I look like a fairy! Well not an actual fairy, but like a complete poof!" Angrily he dropped his wing, letting it slither off the bed again, to partially pool on the floor.

"It wasn't like I meant to fall asleep," he continued, shifting so he could look at part of the Potions Master again. "I had been checking the library for days, trying to find the perfect spell to rid me of these permanently, and I was so tired. I was just going to lie down for a few hours, and then I was going to the boy's bathroom and try the spells I did find. There would be less mess to clean up that way. Then when I woke up, they were already pushing through my skin, and it hurt worse then it ever had before. Once they had erupted, I tried casting a few spells but when they didn't work I went to the bathroom to try removing them myself. I mean, look at this, I've got wings! What kind of pure-blooded wizard has sodding wings?"

"First off, Draco, we need to figure out why you have these appendages," Snape said, almost kindly. "I must confess I have never seen anything quite like them. Draco, we have tried contacting Lucius in prison, but he wouldn't or couldn't tell us anything. Do you know if your mother could shed light on this?"

Draco shrugged half-heartedly. "Probably. Father always blamed mum's mum for this. Don't know if she'd actually be able to tell you anything, though."

Snape transfigured a cup into a chair and sat, "Why don't we start with what you know, and go from there?"

Harry was sure that he was never going to get the image of Malfoy, surrounded by blood, out of his mind. It probably didn't help that he had decided to go back to the bathroom and clean it up. He cast cleansing spells on every surface he could find that had blood spattered on it, and even found one of the Slytherin's robes balled up in the corner, a dried smear of blood on the floor beneath indicating this probably had been used to keep blood from falling on the ground while he had walked to the bathroom. After cleaning the robe, and grabbing the cleaned knife from the floor as well, Harry went down the hall, casting cleaning charms as he went, and for the third time in his life found himself in the Slytherin Dormitories.

There, he cleaned the bed and wall that were spattered with blood, torn pieces of skin and other bits he really didn't want to think about. He made the bed and carefully folded the robe he had brought in from the bathroom, setting it on top of the pillow. From the middle of the room he picked up the shirt, and cleaned the floor. Then, sitting down heavily on the just-cleaned stones, he examined the shirt. The back of it was in stiff little tatters, the brownish-red color of old blood. In Harry's opinion it was not salvageable, so he burned it to ash and swept the remains under one of the other beds.

Harry then walked over to Malfoy's bed and found himself plopping down, his head landing on the folded robe. He curled himself into a tight ball and began shaking quietly. Malfoy had almost died. One of the few people who hadn't simpered and fawned over him, or his name, had almost gone and left him alone. Like Ron and Hermione, or even Snape in his own way, the blond prat had been a constant in his life. Who of his peers other then Malfoy would blatantly insult the Boy Who Lived's friends when Harry was standing right there? While others whispered suspicions and doubts about Harry, Malfoy practically shouted them out over the Great Hall, using a sonorous charm, at lunchtime.

A wan smile filtered across Harry's face at this thought and the Gryffindor found himself drifting off to sleep.

When Harry woke the next day his first priority was getting something to eat. Sleepily, he yawned and scratched his tummy, his mind muzzily noting that a few parts of his cloths seemed awfully stiff, and his skin felt itchy and crawly in corresponding places. His stomach rumbled in an almost grumpy way, and he patted it in a placating manner. With one final stretch he left the Slytherin dorms.

He was going to go get food and then go take a shower and get cleaned up. At least, that was what he told himself. Unfortunately he walked straight past the kitchens and the Great Hall, then didn't even veer in the direction of his dormitory, and found himself standing in front of the doors to the infirmary. Quickly, he revised his plan for the morning. Check on Malfoy, and then get something to eat, and cleaned up. He felt a smirk cross his face. Well, being flexible in one's plans was obviously key in getting things done; he would just have to go with the flow.

Opening the door, he was rather surprised to not see Madam Pomfrey anywhere in sight. He walked over to the obscuring partitions and glanced around them. Malfoy was sleeping, on his stomach, his head turned away from Harry, but he could hear soft little snores coming from the blond's mouth. One wing was trailing over the bed then off the side, his left arm, bent at the elbow, following it. Harry walked into the semi-private space created by the cloth strung on movable frames, and got a view of the Slytherin's face in repose. He stifled a giggle as he noticed the slowly growing dark circle on the pillow under the slightly open mouth of the sleeping boy. It was too perfect! Malfoy was drooling!

Unable to stop snickering at the sight, he tore his eyes away and glanced down at the other boy's body. A sheet had been pulled up to the base of Malfoy's wings, and his right arm was tucked in an almost awkward looking way under his body. The wing on that side had been painstakingly stitched together with a bright white thread, which closer to the skin, appeared to be a rusty red color. Several wooden splints about a meter long and a centimeter in width held the wing straight, and a pulley system, that looked like it had been haphazardly put together, kept it at an angle to reduce the pressure on the wounded area. The excess wing, spilling out where the splints ended, had been looped over, folded neatly and tied down to the upper part of the wood so it would be out of the way.

Harry moved to the left side of Malfoy's bed, and sat on the floor, idly reaching out and stroking the spill of black resting next to his leg. He would wait for the Slytherin to wake up and then talk to him. Harry still had to apologize for incarcerating Malfoy's dad, even if the evil prat did deserve it. Unnoticed, the wing tip twitched under Harry's hand before lying still again.

He smiled softly as his head nodded forward, still drained from the emotionally and physically exhausting trial that was yesterday's drama. He was absolutely sure that even though he and Malfoy had never managed to get along in the past, that this would begin a new line for them, one where they might just be able to get along. As long as the Slytherin could stop being such a pompous little Death-Eater-wannabe prat.

Harry yawned hugely as his eyes slid closed. Things were going to be better from now on, now that he knew for a fact, Malfoy wasn't completely human.


End file.
